


Les Loups de Mer (Eng. version)

by Alex_Crow



Series: Caribbean Series (James Norrington/Catherine Moreau Delannois) [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, F/M, Pre-Canon, Secret Relationship, Spies & Secret Agents, Strong Female Characters, The Royal Navy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25569103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Crow/pseuds/Alex_Crow
Summary: The fight against piracy becomes more than a duty to the King when a woman intervenes.
Relationships: James Norrington/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Caribbean Series (James Norrington/Catherine Moreau Delannois) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847191
Kudos: 13





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Les Loups de Mer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270975) by [Alex_Crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Crow/pseuds/Alex_Crow). 



> Les loups de mer (fr.) — sea wolves.
> 
> Some arts made by me in photoshop.  
> https://ibb.co/album/iO9TRF
> 
> And a short vid:  
> https://youtu.be/KPzxC-GTpqM
> 
> Shortly about the characters. Catherine's name is pronounced as 'Kat'reen' since she is French. I'll be deeply thankful if you keep it in mind while reading. Her husband's name is 'Anri' and their surname is pronounced as 'Delanwa'.

The third Lieutenant's voice, deliberately lowered to an insinuating whisper, was heard from behind a partially closed door of the officers’ wardroom.

‘...and her sails are black as the Death himself, entirely riddled with cannon fire…’

‘Entirely? Are they?’ the fourth Lieutenant asked almost in a falsetto tone. He’d been appointed to _The Dauntless_ only a few days before they’d left Port Royal, and hadn't yet had time to listen to such tales in taverns. Luckily for him.

‘Yes, and it is said that the Devil himself handles her rigging. That's why she is called the fastest ship in the Caribbean.’

‘Lieutenant Groves,’ James said pointedly as he opened the door to the wardroom, and the hapless chatterbox dropped his fork, taken aback by the Captain's voice. ‘I must remind you that this is a ship of line of His Majesty King Charles II, and gossips of drunken sailors are not appropriate on her board. That goes for you, too, Lieutenant Gillette.’

_The fastest ship with ragged sails, just think of it._

‘My appologies, sir,’ both Lieutenants muttered, showing repentance. Or pretending to. The first Lieutenant glared at the confused telltalers and answered with a short laughter.

‘Relax, Lieutenant Gillette. Our Captain only menaces the crew in the morning, and by the lunchtime he usually gets tired of cracking his whip.’

‘Thank you very much, Francis, for undermining my authority once again,' James said dryly, closing the door and approaching the table.

‘I swear I had no intentions, sir,’ Francis Hagthorpe, that joyful fox, answered without any shame at all. ‘The Lieutenants hold you in the highest esteem. I swear we don't even respect the King himself as much as we respect you,’ he smiled cunningly and reached for the decanter on the table. ‘Wine, sir?’

James waited until Groves and Gillette finished their meal hastily and left the wardroom. And then he leaned back in his chair and gave Hagthorpe a meaningful look.

‘What have I done wrong this time?’ Francis asked, being more interested in his own meal than in the conversation with the Captain.

‘I've been a Lieutenant for almost ten years,’ James replied. ‘I know what they usually say about their Captain. And about each other. Have you already told Lieutenant Gillett that he'll have to clean the entire ship by himself, if there is something I don’t like?’

‘I'm not that cruel.’ Francis snorted. ‘I said he would have to clean your boots.’

‘Hmm,’ James muttered, pretending to ponder over this idea. ‘That’s an interesting thought.’

‘Power corrupts people,’ Francis stated meaningly, raising his finger. ‘How many times have I said that?’

James raised an eyebrow and looked at him in surprise.

‘Never.’

‘Haven’t I?’ Francis frowned, pretending to be surprised either. ‘Well, I meant it. In my thoughts. And this power will definitely ruin you.’

‘You’ve always said I am too perfect.’ James reminded, getting truly curious about this conversation.

‘Exactly, mate. People like you are always tempted to change the world. The way they see it. But the others don’t appreciate it usually. I should've challenged you while we were in the same rank.’

‘You are in a desperate need to cross swords, Lieutenant, as I see. But I can offer to use a brush instead, so as not to waste your energy.’

Francis pretended to be deaf and immediately changed the topic of their conversation.

‘Tell me, Captain, sir, do you intend to drop the anchor near the coast of the glorious island of Martinique?’

‘Are we in such need of rum?’ James asked the first question that came to his mind, trying to hide his confusion. Martinique, the domain of the French Crown, famous for its plantations of sugar cane, tobacco and coffee. Almost three years ago a woman from Martinique came on board of _The Dauntless_ with papers stolen on the Dutch side of Saint-Martin. And she got off shortly after telling James she was with his child. He didn't know who she had given birth to or if she had given birth at all. Neither did he know how her family took it because she hadn't let him interfere. Nor did he even know anything about how she lived after that. Even as a captain, given the right to command the best ship of line in these waters, he still couldn't rush to Martinique to find her.

And even if he could... what would he say? And what would she answer?

_‘No, James. You will not resign your commission. I'm not asking you to. I'm not worth it.’_

‘No, we are in need of fresh water,’ Francis replied, not knowing what the Captain was thinking of, but the next moment his dark eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘D'you think we might get into a trouble? The King is now at peace with France, as I remember.’

The King does. But Captain Norrington... Peace was the last thing he felt when he thought of Catherine Delannois. Dashing, passionate, and cunning as a fox she was. _His_ Catherine with a thin smile on her lips and sly sparkles in her light green eyes. A woman who should’ve been avoided at all costs. A woman he was drawn to as if to a whirlpool that had caught his ship in an inexorable current. She might not even be on Martinique — who knew where her service to the King of France had led her these days? — but the anchor of _The Dauntless_ was falling into the water like a stone tied to the feet of a drowning man. And every step, every strike of his boots on the salt-soaked wharf felt like an axe strike to his neck.

The Governor of Martinique listened to the assurances of the most peaceful intentions with an unreadable expression on his face but didn’t seem to be truly confused by this English sort-of-intrusion. In response, James had to endure a gathering of the island's wealthiest plantation owners, who came to the Governor's house to drink a few glasses of wine and play cards and at the same time tried to find out where and for what purpose their occasional English guests were heading. The attempts were clumsy and even more annoying. Not mentioning the fact the gentlemen were probably laughing inwardly at James’ not-so-perfect French.

‘What a ship!’ A middle-aged woman in a high, snow-white wig was pretending to be admiring _The Dauntless_. Or, maybe, her captain, as she was constantly touching her wig and straightening her wide skirt of a deep blue color. ‘I must admit that my heart almost stopped when I saw your Beauty in the harbor, Captain. She's a formidable opponent, isn't she?’

‘Only for pirates and other enemies of the English Crown, Madame.’

Empty conversations, false smiles, ambiguous questions and equally ambiguous answers — the high society in all its glory, loud, catchy and unbearably tedious. And he couldn’t escape. All he could do was to retreat to the window for a moment or two and think of how easy the ship's routine seemed to him if compared to these literal walks over the snake-infested pit. And the Governor continued to welcome plantation owners and wealthy citizens eager for the news of a red-and-blue-flagged ship in the harbor of Saint Pierre.

‘Ah, Madame, you have decided to honor me with your presence, too!’

‘You know how curious I am, Governor,’ a soft female voice replied, and James froze, not daring to turn to that voice for the first few moments.

She _was_ on Martinique.

‘Captain, let me introduce...’

He turned as if he was in a dream, ignoring the Governor's words and seeing only a thin foxy smile on a delicate-featured face of a woman in a plain maroon-colored dress.

‘We are acquainted already, Governor,’ she said and bowed her head to the left side, letting her long brown curls, barely held back by a mother-of-pearl comb, fall over her shoulder. As she studied his face attentively and probably laughed inwardly at the confusion reflected on it. And then her smile suddenly became amazingly proud as she repeated his rank she’d heard from the Governor.

‘Pleased to meet you again… Captain.’


	2. II

The wind was blowing from the sea, making the water in the small bay ripple like a bristling back of a huge beast. And the sky was slowly shrouded in curly black-and-gray clouds, with first glimpses of white lightning bolts appearing in their depth.

‘The storm is coming,’ Catherine said, when she saw the white wave crests foaming on a surface of the dark, almost black water. ‘You're lucky to drop the anchor, captain. A night like this is better to spend on solid ground. And I am lucky,’ she added, almost in a whisper. ‘I was supposed to leave at dawn, but now I'll probably have to stay. At least for a day.’

He wasn’t used to speak to her in French, but now it seemed to be so natural. The way she pronounced the words of her native language, and her voice trilled with the sound ‘r’ more than usual, when she tried to feign English accent. Even if he had to freeze for a moment, literally forcing himself to remember half-forgotten lessons of French to understand her completely.

She shivered at the fresh, chilling gust of wind, and wrapped herself in a thin, dark shawl flung over her shoulders. She lowered her dark lashes, as if she was embarrassed by his attentive look.

‘You…’ James began, not really knowing how to ask such a simple yet complex question. He, an officer of the Royal Navy, captain of a second-rate ship of line, felt like a boy who didn't even know how to talk to a woman. But speaking to her was probably the only thing he truly had the right to do. Only to speak and to look at her, constantly reminding himself that she was married to another man.

He’d failed last time. Completely.

‘You have a son,’ Catherine said, easily guessing what he was thinking of, and the corners of her lips lifted in a smile.

A son. A boy whom he hadn’t even seen, but who is... _His_ boy. His flesh and blood, his life continued in another one.

Catherine squinted at his face and watched attentively, almost tensely, as his expression changed from bewildered to happy. Before she spoke almost in a whisper.

‘I missed... your smile.’

He froze for a moment, but found out he didn’t know the right answer to these words.

‘May I...?’

‘See him?’ Catherine finished for him, and her own smile became clearer. ‘Sure, why not? We'll have to walk a little, though. If you don't mind, Captain. There, past the town square.’

She took his arm serenely and held it tightly with cold fingers. Pretended not to notice how her touch made him shiver. As a memory of the nights spent together on board of _The Dauntless_ suddenly appeared to be too vivid. And he couldn’t help it but he wanted… not only to remember.

‘Now they'll say I'm a slut.’ Catherine murmured. ‘If they haven't already.’

James gave her a disapproving look that only brought another smile in response. Her way of laughing at everything and everyone sometimes became completely... uncomfortable. When she started making sarcastic jokes on herself.

‘He resembles you enough, James. Even too much,’ Catherine said, slightly gathering up her skirts with her free hand and easily matching his stride. Probably too hasty and sweeping stride, that betrayed his excitement better than any words. ‘And at least someone in this poor town should’ve noticed this resemblance. But even if they didn’t…’ she sighed faintly, avoiding to face him. ‘They had already noticed that he doesn't look like Henri at all.’

‘What’s... his name?’

‘Jean. Jean-Marin,’ Catherine replied, and her eyes sparkled at the sight of his smile. ‘I knew you'd understand.’

It would’ve been shameful for himself if he hadn’t. His French wasn't that bad.

The conversation was barely held. Too much time had passed, and the abyss between them had been too wide from the very start. Any question might’ve had a hidden meaning. Any answer might’ve been insincere.

‘When… did you become a captain?’ Catherine asked cautiously, shivering slightly as the sky grew darker.

‘More than a year ago.’

‘And the previous Captain, I presume... was promoted? I can't remember his name.’

‘No, he died earlier. Killed while boarding a pirate ship. I was regarded... worthy enough to replace him.’ James admitted awkwardly, and asked. ‘Why did you... go to the Governor?’

‘My husband is wary of foreign ships near the cost of Martinique. There was a battle with the English… let me think… seventeen years ago and it seems to be too vivid in his memory. So when my sister came running, shouting that a three-decked ship under the English flag had entered the harbor, Henri became seriously alarmed.’

And thus sent his wife to find out what was happening? Didn’t he fear that the English had come with intentions that were anything but friendly? Or it could even be English-flagged pirates, who could simply fire on the town. Though they could hardly own such a ship.

‘I recognized the ship,’ Catherine continued, not letting him to dwell on this thought. ‘I… hoped that it would be you. And that I could at least see you.’

The road left the city and looped over a green-grassed hill. Then it descended again and led the way through the spreading trees, which leaves finally plunged everything into a dense gloom. High overhead, the first distant rumble of thunder rumbled in the clouds. Catherine shivered again and walked faster. And then, when she saw the light house-walls appearing between the trees, she released his hand and almost ran forward, gathering up her skirts even more.

She ran when she saw a little child playing on the porch. James, on the other hand, slowed his stride.

‘What are you doing outside in this foul weather, Monsieur?’ her voice was cheerful, but the joy in her eyes was feigned, barely concealing a note of anxiety. ‘What if it rained and you caught a cold? How shameful it is to frighten me like that!’ she laughed falsely, as she picked the child up and sat on the porch with her son on her lap. And then she raised her foxy eyes and beckoned James with her finger.

He didn’t immediately take the first step. He paused for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the child's round face, framed by unruly curls of dark hair. Catherine had said that their son resembled him, but now James saw much more similarities between the boy and his mother. Especially in the tranquil gaze burning with the same curiosity that had always distinguished Catherine.

_‘I am in no need to divulge your secrets, Lieutenant. Not to anyone. But I am too curious by my nature. I'd be interested to know if you'd like to tell me.’_

Heaven knows, no murderous boarding or mast-breaking storm was so terrible as the need to take only a few steps between him and this woman with the child in her arms.

‘Jean,’ Catherine said proudly, when James finally found strength to come closer and get down on one knee in front of the porch. ‘I would like to introduce you to your father."

‘Good evening,’ the boy answered in a clear voice, not at all surprised by his mother's words, and held out his hand. ‘Mother says you are a sailor, Monsieur. An officer.’

‘Yes, I am.’ James agreed, slightly shaking the small hand that seemed to have sunk into his. For his age the boy spoke very clearly and correctly. In French, of course, and he trilled that ‘r’ sound even more than Catherine did.

‘When I grow up, I'll be a sailor, too,’ Jean said, looking with interest at the white-and-gold braid of James’ uniform. 'And I'll have a big hat!’

James couldn't help but chuckled, and Catherine lowered her lashes to hide her eyes, full of sudden tears.

‘I have no doubt, Monsieur. I assume you're ready to be promoted to Lieutenant, aren’t you?’

The boy's eyes sparkled with joy, and his mother's lips trembled, as James reached out his hand, carefully squeezing her cold fingers. Catherine raised her lashes to meet his gaze, and they both leaned forward a little. Slowly, almost timidly, daring neither touch the barely parted lips, nor pull away, pretending that the movement was only a mistake. An embarrassing misstep that a Royal Navy officer and a respectable married woman could not have made. They couldn't, but...

‘Catherine, dear, are you already back?!’ A male voice came at the same time as the door creaked opening, and James looked up, not hiding his eyes under the brim of his hat, when he met the gaze of a gaunt old man leaning on a walking stick.

‘Oh,’ Henri Delannois said, not seeming to be surprised by this appearance of another man on his doorstep. ‘Well, I should have known,’ he almost murmured, and looked at Catherine. ‘I think we should set the table for seven.’

‘I'll take care of it,’ Catherine said smoothly, before James could refuse, and got to her feet at the same time as he did, pulling her son with her. ‘Come, Monsieur, I need your help.’

‘Lieutenant Norrington, if I remember correctly?’ Monsieur Delannois asked when Catherine closed the door, leaving them alone in the gathering stormy darkness.

‘Captain,’ James corrected in a flat voice. Monsieur's appearance caused him only a dull annoyance, but it was not worth showing.

‘My congratulations, Captain. Would you mind a short walk?’ Monsieur Delannois suggested and slowly walked down the porch, clenching his walking stick. ‘Well, I should have known,’ he repeated, leaving three footprints on the ground and making James adjust to his slow stride.

‘I beg your pardon?’ James replied politely, folding his hands behind his back.

‘She spoke of you during our stay at Port Royal. Three years ago. I remembered… mostly because of my duty. But I didn't know that it was you who helped her to get out of Saint Martin.’

Monsieur's voice sounded so calmly that James’ interference seemed to be the only thing that really surprised Monsieur in all that story about the theft of Dutch papers.

‘I believe,’ James replied evenly, remembering what Catherine had said about leaving at dawn. ‘That Madame is still engaged in such… business.’

‘Oh,’ Monsieur almost smiled and looked up at the black-clouded sky as he heard a faint rumble of thunder. ‘So that's what attracted her. I suppose Catherine considers me to be too callous. That's why she's attracted to men who don't share my loyalty to the King.’

The last sentence was almost insulting. The conversation was already going the wrong way, even before it had really begun. However, this conversation was supposed to start with insults, wasn't it?

‘Loyalty to the King is inherent in all gentlemen, Monsieur,’ James retorted, not letting himself to raise his voice. ‘But I have always believed that the first and prior duty of a man is to protect his wife’s life and peace.’

‘Catherine and I made an agreement,’ Monsieur replied dryly, thrusting his stick into the ground like a sword into somebody’s flesh. ‘And I only suggested adding another clause to the agreement. The final decision was hers.’

‘And, of course, she would reject an offer from a man who saved her from being stigmatized as a whore and took care of her sisters, wouldn't she?’

Monsieur did not know his own wife, if he thought that she could refuse. If Catherine felt obligated, her gratitude knew no bounds, as James had known since the night she had offered him herself without the slightest shame. Because of her desire, thankfulness and an incomprehensible admiration for an act that had nothing outstanding in it. He’d done nothing remarkable, he’d only… kept silent when he’d understood her true occupation.

‘I have a duty to the King,’ Monsieur said dryly, clumping because of his mutilated leg. ‘A duty I can't fulfill. If you were me, Captain...’

‘I do not make such agreements with women.’

‘Do you consider they’re not smart enough?’ Mr. Delannois thrust in response immediately, clearly intending to turn his words upside down.

‘I didn't say that, Monsieur,’ James retorted in an equally dry tone. ‘Was it her decision to learn how steal and kill people with one shot?’

‘Not everything in this life happens the way we want it to, Captain," Monsieur replied sententiously. ‘You are too young to understand that, I suppose. How old are you? Twenty-five?’

‘Twenty-nine. And as you’ve said, I'm the Captain. Of a warship.’

‘Hmm,’ Monsieur muttered. ‘You look younger. Still, it's strange to hear such accusations from someone who...’

‘I proposed she divorced if she wanted to,’ James said, knowing exactly where this was going to. ‘She refused. Because of your agreement and its consequences.’

‘Is that so?’ Monsieur seemed to give a deep thought to these words. ‘She didn't mention it. Well, then, I guess we got off to the wrong start. And I should be honest. I owe you no grudge, Captain, though I have no doubt it is what you expect me to do. I could have challenged you out of decency, but we both know that I can't win a fair fight, and your false defeat will make me look even more of a fool than I already am in my neighbors’ eyes. And I don't have any grudge against my wife. Because I don't love her. Not as a woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. This woman has long been buried. But Catherine is dear to me in her own way. I do not approve of her choice not because she is my wife, but because I understand too well what is going on. She loves you… yes, she still does, even though she tries to hide it. And I suppose you are not indifferent to her, or you would not resent... her occupation, as you said. But you will both break each other's hearts because of your sense of duty and desire to do what is right. Which will probably be needed by others, but not by you two.’

James said nothing. Whatever was going on between him and Catherine — if there was _anything_ going on between them at all — it was none of her husband's business.

‘But I dare hope,’ Monsieur continued, ‘that you are not the kind of man to leave your son to his fate. And his mother too. Catherine has been betrayed by such a man once before, and he still has the audacity to say that she has killed his child. With me, her husband, being still alive. And I am not immortal. I have no doubt that evil tongues will not let her live peacefully after my death. Or even worse. She has a harsh tongue and some men believe she provokes them to act cruelly. When she only protects herself from an already cruel behavior. I’m not asking you to make any vows, but I’d like to be sure she’ll be safe. And that she will find another shelter and protection in these waters.’

If only the English shelter couldn’t have cost Catherine her life. And wasn’t it Monsieur’s own fault? However, it was probably too early to think about it.

‘You have a right to think that I have no honor, Monsieur. But I will never refuse to help her.’

Not just because of their son. But also because she is... Just because she is who she is. A dashing French fox who once loved him for reasons he couldn’t understand. Who… might still love him.

‘Good,’ Monsieur replied, but James felt that there wasn’t true sincerity in these words. Thunder rumbled again in the black sky. ‘I'll take the risk of offering you not only dinner, but a bed for the night, if you don't want to return to your ship in the pouring rain.’

Oh, no. James would truly prefer a deadly storm than necessity to watch her smiling to her husband, who had dragged her into one more escapade. Even if he had to sacrifice the most precious thing in his life in order to avoid such a spectacle. After all, this boy had done very well without him for more than two years. And apparently, he needed his suddenly appeared father far less, than James needed him. Who in this world would truly need such a father, always lost at sea and at first not even daring to anchor near these shores? But His Majesty's officers should put their duty to the Crown first, shouldn't they?

‘I am afraid, I have to decline, Monsieur,’ James replied in a flat voice, not allowing any emotion to be read on his face. ‘I cannot leave _The Dauntless_ without a captain for a whole night when she is anchored in a French harbor.’

‘You want me dead, don’t you?’ As it seemed from the tone of his voice, Monsieur was trying to joke. ‘Catherine won't forgive me if you leave without getting to know your son. She'll think I’ve... frightened you off.’

‘Unfortunately,’ said James, feeling how stiff and barely moving his lips were. ‘I don't always have the right to do what I want to do. I wish you good evening, Monsieur. Send my regrets to Madame.’

Monsieur Delannois said nothing. Though he certainly judged inwardly this literal escape, as he watched James disappearing in the darkness amongst the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The naval battle between English and French, which Catherine mentioned, happened in 1667 near the coast of Martinique and ended in English victory.


	3. III

At dawn the sky became pale gray, tinged with yellow and almost white colors. White clouds drifted slowly from the Northwest, transparent, as if they were melting in the wind. These clouds were the last echo of the storm that had raged during the night, bending the spreading palm trees to the ground and mercilessly beating the flowers that grew almost on every inch of the island. Some of these flowers were already spreading their wet petals, reaching for the sun barely shining over the hills, but others were still lying on the darkened wet ground, drowned in muddy puddles.

Catherine watched as the outline of the rain-drenched backyard garden slowly emerged from the gloom. Before she finally stepped away from window and sat down on the edge of the narrow bed next to the sleeping child with arms spread out. She tucked the warm blanket round him and leaned over, brushing aside the thin strands of dark hair to kiss his warm forehead. Jean stirred, wrinkling his nose, sighed sleepily, and raised his lashes.

‘Sleep,’ Catherine said softly, stroking his tangled hair, but he wrinkled his nose again and murmured sleepily.

‘Don’t go.’

‘It won't be long, honey. I'll be back before you even notice,’ Catherine said and leaned to him again, kissing his cheek. ‘Be a good boy.’

‘I will,’ Jean repeated obediently, closing his eyes, and didn't even notice when she tucked the blanket again and got on her feet, trying to leave as quietly as possible. So that no floorboards would creak under her boots and disturb his sleep.

As Catherine came down the stairs, she ran into her husband, wrapping himself in a warm dressing gown and blinking blindly in the darkness.

‘You shouldn't have got up, Monsieur. It’s too early.’

‘I know you're angry,’ Henri said placidly, but she passed him, slightly pushing him aside with her shoulder.

‘I am not angry, Monsieur,’ Catherine replied in a calm voice, as she put on her long coat and carefully buttoned it up, hiding a pair of pistols under its long dark skirts. ‘I'm furious at how talented men become when they want to screw up women's lives. Hand me my things, please.’

‘I don't want to say goodbye like this,’ Henri said, handing her a leather bag with a long strap.

‘Well, you don't have to,’ Catherine snapped out, slamming her hat on her knotted hair, and strode out onto the porch. She took a deep breath of the cold damp air and slammed the door behind her. She had enough of talking. It would be foolish to expect Henri would truly care for another man’s child, but at least he could not have interfered.

 _‘If you are so disappointed with your wife, Monsieur, you can always ask for a divorce. I'm sure the Governor won't refuse. I'm not holding you.’_ Catherine thought angrily, before wiping her tears and heading resolutely toward the bay.

The town was still asleep, grown quiet after the night's storm, and the wharf was plunged in a thick white fog that obscured outlines of the ships and deceived even the most sensitive ears. Catherine didn't hear the English until she was within a foot of the men dragging water barrels. And she almost run into a young man in a blue uniform.

‘My apologies... Madame,’ he hesitated for a moment, definitely not expecting to meet a woman in a men's clothing. ‘I didn't notice you.’

‘It’s alright... Lieutenant,’ Catherine said with a faint smile as she took a look at his uniform, and continued walking through the dock. Lieutenant, Lieutenant... Captain. He turned his head, glancing over his shoulder, and his eyes flashed with a steel-green color in the white haze.

‘Madame.’

‘Leaving us already, Captain?’ Catherine asked with a perfectly polite smile.

‘Trying to,’ James said with grim irony, and almost whispered after a brief moment of confusion. ‘Forgive me.’

Catherine lowered her eyes — just for a moment, but it still was enough to show her weakness — and answered in a barely audible voice.

‘I don't know what he’s told you, but...’

‘It's not about him.’

‘About what, then?’

‘Where are you going?’ James asked, as if he hadn't heard her. Or, on the contrary, he _did_ hear her too well.

‘And you?’ Catherine replied, and for a long moment the only sound in the silence between them was the splashing of water around pier stanchions. And the muffled cursing of the sailors. _He won't answer,_ she realized, looking at his frozen face. _He doesn’t trust her. And he is right_. ‘I just thought we might meet again, Captain. Perhaps on the way to Montserrat.’

‘Probably’ James agreed. ‘But I can't say for sure.’

‘Well, I hope we will,’ Catherine said, and bowed her head slightly, hiding her eyes in the shadow of her hat for a moment. ‘Fair winds, Captain.’

‘As for you, Madame.’

Catherine nodded and walked forward without looking back. But she hoped he watched her until she disappeared in the fog.

Salt-eaten, swollen after a storm mooring squished under her feet. Like it was about to collapse into separate planks, and the whitish tentacles of the swirling mist would engulf anyone unlucky enough to be on the wharf at this early hour.

Bad thoughts. Not at all suitable for someone who was leaving for the sea. She’d better send them away as soon as possible.

The captain of the ship called _The Sea Beauty_ , a merchant vessel with perhaps the most boring name in the whole world, was getting impatient, and met Catherine with undisguised displeasurd even annoyance on his face.

‘Madame,’ the captain said as soon as Catherine reached the quarterdeck, ‘I only agreed to take you on board out of respect for your husband...’

‘Believe me, Monsieur,’ Catherine retorted in a perfectly polite tone, ‘I had no intention of inconveniencing you in any way.’

If it were up to her, she would never have set foot on a ship commanded by such an impudent man as Antoine-Michel de Blanchard. But his ship was still the only one heading the right course.

‘Is that why you keep me waiting for you?’ the captain looked at her as if she were a mere fly crawling on deck.

‘Were you planning to sail in this unnatural fog?’ Catherine raised an eyebrow politely. If so, perhaps she should have changed her mind and waited for another ship whose captain would not be such a fool.

‘It will disappear in a few minutes,’ De Blanchard replied, as if he found her question extremely insulting and her being unable to distinguish starboard from port. ‘Go to your cabin. I don't need you wandering on deck and distracting my men.’

 _‘So am I, Monsieur,’_ Catherine thought irritatingly, but decided that arguing with this man was unworthy of an intelligent woman.

The cabin, as it turned out, had to be shared with the captain's spiritless wife, who was constantly sticking a needle into her orchid embroidery, and an equally spiritless daughter, a sixteen-year-old girl named Louise, who did not look up from her Bible.

‘Are you so afraid of the sea, Mademoiselle?’ Catherine asked, when another bell rang outside, marking it was already half-past four. At first, she tried to doze, quickly getting used to the ship’s rocking, but her mind kept going back and forth between Jean and James, and the constant rustle of pages and the muffled murmur kept her from even losing herself in these thoughts.

‘Excuse me?’ Louise de Blanchard asked, barely glancing at Catherine. As if Mademoiselle was embarrassed by Catherine's white man-tailored shirt, high boots with breeches tucked into them, and a pair of pistols tightly wrapped on belts around her thighs. However, why 'as if'? The poor thing was truly torn apart with shock and curiosity. And her mother — only with shock.

‘You pray all the time. Are you that scared?’

‘No, Madame,’ Louise murmured. ‘My father says that there is only one worthy occupation for an unmarried woman. Constant spiritual improvement.’

‘And for a married one?’ Catherine asked without interest, already knowing what the answer would be.

‘Oh, a married woman has much more responsibilities. Don't you know that, Madame?’

‘Louise,’ her mother said, thrusting the needle into her needlework and carefully squinting her eyes to see the intricate patterns in the dimness of the cabin. ‘Read to us. I'm sure Madame wants to hear the Holy Scriptures, too.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to go on deck? Catherine offered without much hope of success, looking up at the dim ceiling of the cabin. Faint echoes of some sort of shouting or argument were coming from the upper deck. ‘Your daughter will go blind quickly if she reads in this darkness.’

‘She knows the Bible well and can recite it by heart,’ said Madame de Blanchard drily. ‘Our confessor praised her for her diligence.’

Louise, on the other hand, was more direct because of her age and naivety.

‘My father doesn't like it when we go out on the deck. It’s a bad luck to have a woman on board.’

‘And yet you are here, Mademoiselle,’ Catherine reminded, as she sat up on the narrow bed and put on her waistcoat.

‘A good wife follows her husband everywhere,’ Madame de Blanchard replied primly, continuing to thrust the needle into her embroidery.

And, presumably, a good wife didn’t have children who didn’t resemble her husband at all. This happened to seamen's wives sometimes — not every woman was prepared to wait six months for return of a one certain man — so captain de Blanchard obviously preferred not to take chances. Instead, he locked his wife and daughter in their cabin like jewels in a wooden chest. He definitely didn’t know that some wives were quite capable of finding a lover even on board. Especially if it was a military ship.

‘I don't dare argue with you, Madame,’ Catherine said, unable to keep sarcasm out of her voice as she buttoned her waistcoat. ‘But I think I'll take a walk around the deck. I love the smell of the sea.’

Louise watched her go with envious eyes, but when Catherine turned to close the door behind her, the girl had already returned to the Bible and was muttering to herself again.

The upper deck was suddenly crowded with people. The sailors were hastily loading their pistols and cannons on the starboard side, and the captain was peering through his telescope, although the dark silhouette of an unknown ship was already perfectly visible against the deep blue waves and the cloudless blue sky.

‘What are their colors?’ Catherine asked as she approached the gunwale, and the captain swore, taken aback by her sudden appearance near him.

‘What are you doing here? Your place is in the cabin.’

‘I asked what their colors were.’

‘No colors,’ De Blanchard muttered, annoyed that he had to report to anyone at all, and folded his telescope. ‘Pirates, I suppose. And they are gaining on us.’

 _‘Damn it!’_ Catherine swore in her mind, turning on her heel, and rushed back to the cabin. If... When the battle begin, she will need bullets and gunpowder.

De Blanchard's wife and daughter screamed in surprise as Catherine flung the door open and grabbed her bag at the foot of her berth.

‘For God's sake, Madame, you startled us!’

‘My apologies, Madame’ Catherine replied indifferently, pulling out a small bag of round leaden bullets and a belt with a set of suspended cartridges. Wooden ones covered in black leather and with tightly closed lids so that the powder measured for the shot would not spill out.

‘What's going on?’ Louise asked, still being completely startled. Unlike her mother, she had not yet lost all of her curiosity and a habit of paying attention to the strangeness of other people's behavior.

‘Stay here, Mademoiselle,’ Catherine said, fearing that the girl would rush to the deck. Searching for adventure but only being killed by a first shot. ‘It looks like your father is going to fight now.’

She didn't dare go out on deck, exposed to all the wind and gunfire, again. She opened the door of the captain's cabin under the quarterdeck, hoping that this carved piece of wood would protect her from a pistol shot or even a riffle one, and pulled out the first pistol, setting the hammer in a half-cocked position.

The second ship continued to approach them, ignoring the signals from _The Sea Beauty_ , until a black flag with a pair of white crossbones was hoisted over her mainmast.

‘Scoundrels!’ the captain replied, and ordered a volley from the starboard side, aiming to take advantage of the enemy. ‘ _Too far_ ,’ Catherine thought, suddenly remembering the boarding _of The Dauntless_. What did he say then? What did he say that night?

_‘They fired too soon. If they had gotten any closer, the damage could’ve been much worse, Madame.’_

And there were ‘long nines’ on _The Dauntless_ — nine-pounder guns, that gave her advantage. They hardly were on board of an ordinary merchant ship. And so the first volley from _The Sea Beauty_ raised splash of water in vain and barely damaged enemy’s figurehead.

‘Reload!'

A retaliatory strike shoke the ship, sending sharp splinters flying from the damaged gunwale. Faint screams of frightened women came from below.

‘Faster!’

Too late. The pirates clearly had more skill than the confused merchant seamen, and a pair of chain shots burst from one of their guns, striking the mainmast. An equal shot from _The Dauntless_ easily brought down the mast of the Dutch ship, but cannoneers of a pirate ship were still inferior to the English military ones. The mast creaked, but it did bear the first hit. And another pair of chained cannonballs whistled through the air with the thunder of a new volley. The mast shuddered at the second strike and broke in two with a deafening crash. A greyish topgallant turned over on its side and fell into the water with a splash.

And the men running on deck were hit with buckshot. Catherine recoiled instinctively, covering her face with her free hand, but the small iron balls whizzed past her, drenching the deck with blood.

‘Defend yourself!’ The captain yelled over the roar of guns, as the pirates boarded his ship in smoke with dozens of long hooks stabbing the gunwale. Catherine pulled the hammer, putting it in the cock position, raised her hand, squinting her right eye, and fired. The shot hit one of the pirates in the stomach, but didn’t kill. Badly wounded, perhaps, but he still had a chance to survive.

_'Not good.'_

‘Fight!’ The captain screamed, and she discharged the second pistol as well. Then she grabbed the first charge on her belt, muzzle-loaded the pistol, and opened the frizzen to blow the remains of the gunpowder from the flash pan.

‘Cut them down!’

The frizzen closed with a thud inaudible in the center of a battle, the hammer clicked for the first time, half-cocked, then for the second time, as Catherine squinted again. The strike of the flint knocked down the sight, forcing the pistol to be hastily aimed at the target at the second time, and another shot shattered the bridge of one of the pirates' noses, driving not only a bullet but also fragments of bone into his skull.

It was already useless to load the pistol once more, even if she tried. The battle was raging on deck, and the odds were clearly not on the merchant side. And Catherine couldn't even count on someone to cover her with a sword in his hand while she would waste so much time for reloading the pistol.

Damn. She wasn’t going to rely on nobility of the pirates. After they would board the ship, they could easily give all women to the crew. Or even kill them. Could she even try to get the screaming women out of their cabin below? No. They’d be noticed. _Three_ women would be, for sure. And even if not, then...

The pirates didn't give her time to decide what to do. An open door could hide her from the gunmen on the deck of an enemy ship, but not from the men who were fighting just in a few feet away. Catherine didn't have time to load her pistol again. She caught it by the muzzle, barely meeting mad, bloodthirsty eyes, and slammed the metal-edged grip down with all her strength. It only stunned the enemy for a moment or two, but it was enough for her to rush to the port gunwale and leap over it, splashing into the water.

The mast. A bloody piece of the mainmast floating in the waves. Catherine surfaced, pushing her wet, tangled hair from her face, slid the pistol into the hip holster clumsily, and swam toward the greyish sail, hoping that no one would see her from the ship and shoot at her. When she reached the mast, clutching at bits of rigging, and turned to hide under the protection of a crumpled sail, she realized that the voyage of _The Sea Beauty_ was truly over. Shouts, laughter, and single shots came from deck, stating the pirates’ victory. It would be a miracle if they didn't shoot the entire crew after finding nothing in the holds but tobacco and coffee.

Damn. It would be a miracle if she could stay afloat long enough before another ship passed here. But even such a death was preferable to having to beg those creatures on her knees to spare her life. And to live in a true slavery, which will be made out to be her own fault if she ever managed to escape.

_‘Jean... Dear... Forgive me. I don't think I'll be home soon.’_

But there was someone to take care of him. This was also part of their agreement too. If one day her mission ended in failure and the gallows — or in death at the sea, — Jean would not be left without oversight and protection.

More screams came from the deck. The pirates were laughing as they pushed people, both dead and the few living, overboard. Catherine tried to hide behind the mast as low as possible, but after a moment she swore inwardly. Women in long dresses — women who could barely swim and had absolutely no idea how to stay afloat — would immediately go down, as if they had a pair of cannonballs tied to their feet.

‘Help!’ Louise screamed, clinging to the gunwale and only letting it go when another shot rang through the air. Catherine swore again and let go of the mast. She dared not take off her boots — she didn’t dare get rid of them while she had a piece of mast at hand, — and now she hoped the foolish girl wouldn't drag them both to the sea bottom while floundering about in the water and hysterics.

‘Mother!’ Louise sobbed, splashing the water in all directions, and only stopped when she got a slapp.

‘Take off your dress,’ Catherine said, grabbing the girl's arm and trying to pull her away from the ship. She didn't expect the pirates taking a tow. More likely they’d blow up the barrels of gunpowder in the hold.

‘I can't,’ Louise sobbed, trying to shake the salty, stinging drops of water from her shot palm, and took a mouthful of a wave. Catherine swore once more and dived to reach the fastener of the heavy dress.

‘Swim. Come on, you silly creature, swim as fast as you can, or you'll drown us both.’

‘Mother,’ Louise sobbed again. Madame de Blanchard stepped overboard with far more dignity than her daughter, but the captain was also pushed at gunpoint.

‘Burn in hell, you bastards!’ he yelled, oblivious to his wife's wet brocade dress which truly dragged her down her like a cannonball.

‘Take off her dress, or she'll drown! And get away from the ship, you fool!’

‘You, Madame!’ the captain was taken aback, as if he had already thought her dead. But then he listened to the advice, realizing that a ship with a broken mast was useless for the pirates. More and more hands were grabbing the floating piece of mast with the sail, and it risked sinking in a few moments.

And then the gunpowder exploded in the hold. Catherine barely had time to take a deep breath and dive to avoid wooden shrapnel flying above their heads, and a muffled cry came from the surface of the water. Some of the survivors were less fortunate.

‘Wood!’ the captain commanded, seasoning his orders with curses as the pirate ship set sail. ‘We need planks, or we'll all drown here!’

‘Father!’ Louise sobbed, as drops of blood from her hand were falling into the water.

‘Monsieur, bind your daughter's hand before she brings all the Caribbean sharks here!’

‘Let's try to make a raft!’

‘A raft? In the water?! It will be a miracle if we can tie even a couple of planks together!’

‘We'll have to try, mates!’

Catherine grabbed at the ragged rigging again, pulled herself up, swinging her leg over the broken mast, and tried to look around. The sea. Just the sea reflecting the sun dazzling rays, just...

_‘James.’_

Catherine paused for a moment, grasping the thought as if it were a lifeline thrown to her, and shouted again.

‘Captain, we need to stay the course!’

‘You are mad, Madame! How do you think we will do it?!’

‘I don't know! You are the captain here, not me! There is a hope that an English ship is on the same course from Martinique! If we are carried too far away, they may pass by and not notice us!’

‘A ship?’ Louise repeated with trembling lips, clinging to a piece of the mast with a hand tied with a wet rag. ‘What ship, Madam?’

‘Military,’ Catherine said shortly, searching the horizon for a hint of white sails and a red-and-blue flag. ‘The English Royal Navy. But they're falling behind. I think it will be a miracle if we see them before dark.’

And at night... They might actually pass by without noticing the wreckage of a blown-up ship floating on the water.

Catherine shivered in the gust of wind, wishing she could change her wet shirt for a dry one, or her broken mast for a chair by the fire, and turned South again, towards Martinique lost somewhere there, in the waves. As she searched for the outline of sails in the sunlight.

_‘Dear God, if only he didn't lie to me. Otherwise, the sun won't give us any chance.’_


	4. IV

The sunlight came into the Captain's cabin through a pair of tiny square windows in the side wall, and the red sunset rays fell on the cabin floor in two bright sheaves, plunging the rest of it into a pleasant shadow. However, it was not wise to fill in the ship's log in such a shadow, so he had to light a candle in an iron lamp with blurry glass sides.

The quill was scraping across the yellowish page of the logbook, writing perfectly even, reddish-black lines — endless weeks of training, and a slap on the fingers every time the letter was not neat enough or the edge of the line began to bend down, — until a hasty knock sounded in the silence of the cabin.

‘Captain!’ Francis shouted, appearing in the doorway. ‘A shipwreck Northeast of us. The lookout noticed its wreckage and several people in the water. With your permission, I have already given the order to come closer.’

James stuck his quill in the inkwell, rose from the chair, leaving his uniform coat hanging on the high back, and followed the Lieutenant to the deck. Francis shot forth the starboard like a cannonball and opened a telescope with a click.

‘Thank you,’ James said, although the ship wreckage and people clinging to it were already visible to the naked eye. If, of course, you knew where to look. If he had taken a casual glance over the gunwale, he might not have noticed at first this movement in the choppy waves reflecting the blinding sunlight.

There were several men in the water, waving to the approaching ship and shouting something yet unheard. A couple of women were clinging to pieces of planks somehow tied together, And... another person who stretched out helplessly on a broken mast with a crumpled sail. Someone in men's clothing, but who had dropped long, dark hair into the water. He… she stirred, aroused from her stupor by the screams of the castaways, and slowly raised her head. For a moment James thought he could even see tears in her reddened eyes.

_‘No! For God's sake, don't...!’_

She slid off the wrecked mast before he could even finish this thought. Maybe she was too tired to hold on. Or she made the same mistake as many others before her. She gave in to the sense of hope that the sight of the approaching ship had given her, and threw her last strength into a futile attempt to reach what now seemed to be the solid ground. Pointless it was, as they would have brought her on board anyway if she could have waited a little longer. The wave covered the dark-haired head, barely visible above the wave. Once, twice... James folded the telescope, unbuckled his sword belt, and handed them to Francis. The Lieutenant took them obediently, but answered with forthright doubt.

‘Capita-a-an...’

‘We're too far away, she may not make it,’ James answered, grabbing the shrouds and leaping up on the gunwale.

‘She?’ Francis repeated and got only a loud splash of water in response. ‘Hey, take off your boots at least! Oh, damn you, hero. It'll be your own fault, if you drown. Heave to and take in sails! Lieutenant Groves, lower one of the boats! Let's pick up these poor things! Lieutenant Gillette, drop the rope ladder when the Captain deigns to rescue the lady in distress!’

Meanwhile, the lady must have decided to drown, as she disappeared in the waves when she was only a few feet away, and coughed convulsively when he brought her back to the surface.

‘It's all right, I've got you.’

‘James,’ Catherine sobbed, clinging to him with both hands and letting her head fall to his shoulder, almost gulping the sea water. ‘James.’

‘It's all right,’ James repeated, but she hardly understood anything at all until she heard waves lapping around the ship. She couldn't hold on to the dropped ladder either, choking with tears, and didn't even resent being carried over his shoulder in an almost rude and rough way.

‘Lieutenant Gillette, don't stand there!’

Like he was made of stone, for Heaven’s sake.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ the Lieutenant muttered, taking the sobbing woman from James's arms, but he couldn’t even hold her, and she slid to the deck, shuddering and hiding her face in her scratched hands.

‘Bring the surgeon to my cabin,’ James said and picked her up again. When the cabin door closed with a soft slam, Catherine was no longer sobbing, but crying helplessly, not even trying to wipe the tears running down her cheeks. Or even noticing as her boots and wet clothes were being taken off. She just kept repeating his name like a madwoman, as if she'd forgotten all the other words at once. Seeing her like this — tear-stained, looking too fragile in his own dry shirt, with her lips trembling and wet hair hanging over her chest like seaweed — was unbearable. But it was even harder to let go of her cold fingers clinging desperately to his hand.

‘I'll be back in a moment’.

And she’d be seen by the surgeon to make sure she wasn't hurt any more than someone who might have been after drifting, presumably, for several hours under the blazing sun. And, after all, as a doctor, the surgeon must’ve known what to do with a person — whether man or woman — in such state.

‘Captain,’ Francis chuckled, just coming on board when James returned to the deck. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Monsieur de Blanchard, captain of the ship _La Belle Marine_ , which, unfortunately, has sunk about five o'clock in the afternoon because of some pirates. And where is our esteemed surgeon, I'd like to know? There are wounded men amongst the crew, and Mademoiselle de Blanchard’s hand was shot by these scoundrels.’

"Enough, Lieutenant,’ James said in a dry, low voice, brushing his wet hair from his face, and addressing the captain of the sunken ship as he climbed aboard. ‘The surgeon will come in a minute. Do you remember what course the pirates’ve taken?

‘My wife and daughter need help and suitable clothing,’ Monsieur de Blanchard said, as if he hadn't heard the question. ‘They can't be dressed like this amongst this... number of men.’

Almost six hundred men, to be more precise.

‘The course!’ James repeated, raising his voice, and the pompous Frenchman shivered, remembering about his plight. ‘Would you be so kind as to recall at least an approximate direction? Please.’ James said drily, crossing his hands on his chest.

A couple of frightened women in wet corsets and petticoats did not interest him at all.

‘The North,’ Monsieur de Blanchard muttered, after a moment, also forgetting about his wife and daughter. ‘I suppose they will raise a Dutch or English flag and try to sell my goods on the nearest island.’

‘Thank you,’ James said dryly and turned to Francis. ‘Lieutenant, we are going after these pirates. At any cost.’

‘Yes, sir. I'll take care of it,’ Francis nodded, finally realizing that his jokes were completely out of place, and flew up to the quarterdeck, sending away the helmsman away and taking the wheel.

‘Captain,’ the surgeon said, appearing behind James, and continued in a low voice. ‘The lady is in a deep shock but she’s not wounded… in any other way. It will be better to watch over her for a day or two, she might’ve caught a cold during the time she was in the water, but in the rest her life and health is in no danger. All she needs is a warm drink and to sleep as long as she wants to. And I think our cook wouldn’t refuse to make some broth. With your permission, I’ll see the other castaways.’

James nodded and turned on his heel. ‘Lieutenant Groves, take care of the shipwrecked crew . The women, of course, will need an individual cabin.’

The two of them. As he wouldn’t let the third one out of his sight for all the treasures of this world.

***

The bed seemed to be rocking on the waves, lifting it up on a white foaming ridge, then throwing it back into the opaque green abyss. Catherine woke up several times — seeing a bright light of candles, then the pale sunlight, then again bright but also sunlight, — barely heard the voices that reached her, obediently swallowed the tasteless bouillon, and fell again into the greenish gloom of her uneasy sleep. Where the other voices and half-blurred faces appeared from the darkness.

 _‘Mother, play with me!’_ Jean shouted, and ran away across the green lawn, laughing and waving his arms.

 _‘What should we do, Catiche?’_ Georgette wrung her hands helplessly, unable to understand a single word in their father's papers. What did she know at the age of twelve? What did she even know at twelve or eighteen?

_‘Oh, Heaven save us, are you with child?! What are you doing, Catiche?! Do you want Monsieur Henri to throw you in the streets just like Monsieur Trevelyan did?! Monsieur Henri took care of us for so many years, took care of you, and you...!’_

What did Georgette understand even at twenty-one?

_‘That's all? You’ve almost traded our comfortable life for this? For an… officer? An Englishman who boasts to other Englishmen how many times he has been to France during your time on board of an English ship? Why did you bring him to our house?!’_

_‘You know nothing of him!’_ Catherine wanted to scream but couldn’t even part her lips. ‘ _You…! I don’t care what he might’ve said of me! He came when I already thought I was dead!’_

He came. He was there, in the water, holding her in his arms as if he wasn’t a Captain of a foreign military ship who could simply order his sailors to take her on board. He did it himself as if… he didn’t trust anyone else with her life. She lied to herself falling into sleep that she might’ve still meant something to him. And she must’ve dreamed of a hand, stroking her tangled hair, and of warm lips, touching gently her forehead.

_‘Mother, tell a story.’_

Jean’s green eyes were sparkling in the candlelight, and she was trying again, without knowing why, to figure out who had given him that color. Was it hers or James’? Sometimes her son's eyes were as light and clear as her own, and sometimes she saw a grayish tinge at the rim of his iris.

_‘What do you want to hear, my dear?’_

A candle flickered faintly from the ship rocking, casting its light on a face of a man sleeping in her embrace. Lighting up his tanned cheek and his straight nose.

_‘It was foolish to fall in love with you, James Norrington. I'm glad I'm still foolish enough.’_

The rays of the sun hurt her eyes, reflecting off the water she couldn't drink. Reflecting off the boundless sea, in which there was nothing but the wreckage of a ship that had long since sunk to its bottom.

_‘When will you be back? Mother? Mother!’_

_‘Jean. Oh, dear God, Jean... James!’_

The bed rocked again, as if thrown high up and back into the abyss, and Catherine slowly opened her eyes, squinting sleepily and not seeing anything but the darkness around her and the slightly lighter rectangles on one side of the cabin. Stern windows.

Only then she felt an arm lying across her ankles. Catherine narrowed her eyes again, looking attentively at the foot of the bed, and saw an outline of a high-backed chair and a silhouette of a man sleeping with his head near her blanket-wrapped legs. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently touched his shoulder in a thin white shirt.

‘I'm sorry,’ Catherine murmured as he flinched at the touch and jerked his head up, with his eyes opened wide. ‘May I have some water?’

‘Just a moment’, James said sleepily and stood up, suppressing a yawn. He went to the table, poured water into a high glass, then returned to the bed and handed it to Catherine. Before he sat down in the chair and wrapped his arm around her legs again, clearly intending to continue his interrupted sleep in this uncomfortable posture. Catherine drained the glass in a few gulps, then put it carefully on the floor beside the bed and held her hand out again.

‘Come here.’

‘It's against the rules of propriety, Madame,’ James murmured sleepily, without opening his eyes, and she answered with the first thing that came to her mind.

‘I'm freezing.’

'All right,' James agreed weakly, pulled off his boots and laid down beside him, letting her put her arm across his chest and press her cheek against it, feeling his heart beating calmly and steadily. But the dream seemed to slip away. Catherine listened to his quiet breathing and the splash of waves for some time, and then asked, seeming to wake him up again.

‘How long did I sleep?’

‘Hmm? A day or so.’

A day? Oh, Heaven! And he'd been sleeping like this for two nights? Guarding the peace of a hysterical woman who almost went mad after just a couple of hours drifting in the open sea? She used to think she was ready... well, maybe not to any trouble in this world, but certainly to most of them. But instead of it...

‘I don't ... I’m sorry I don't know why I was so… I'm usually more reserved, and... ‘

‘Are you?’ James asked sleepily. ‘Sorry, I didn't notice.’

 _‘True enough_ ,’ Catherine thought, and cuddled closer up to him.

‘Ahem.’

‘I'm sorry,’ Catherine repeated but didn't even think to pull away. Then she took a deep breath and confessed almost in a whisper. ‘I was praying you wouldn't lie about your course.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn't have said anything at all, if I didn’t want you to know.’

If he hadn’t wanted to speak to her... If he hadn’t trusted her with even that... But what could he possibly trust her with? Except for himself.

Catherine raised herself on her elbow, studying his face in the dark. Not daring to do anything else out of fear of being pushed away and reminded of how it ended last time... How it ended with nothing. With Jean’s birth and yet with nothing for themselves. With the need to smile in response to the most blatant hints — which are not even hints — because every damn inhabitant of Martinique understood that if a woman returned to the island after eight months of absence and gave birth to a child four months later, the father of this child might have been even the sea devil himself, but certainly not her husband. Well, if to think of it...

The price was low.

‘I love you,’ she said softly and didn't look away when he turned his head and opened his eyes.

‘You shouldn’t.’

‘Shouldn’t?’ Catherine repeated, unable to resist a short chuckle. ‘What made you think it was my choice?’

‘Nothing,’ James agreed. ‘As it wasn’t mine also.’

_‘Not yours? What are you... What do you mean? Are you saying you…’_

She didn't even move, afraid that he might pull back, when he reached up and tucked her salty hair behind her ear.

‘You know, you... scared me this time. Do you consider your… business to be worth drowning?’

No. She didn’t. Drowning for some papers useless for herself wasn’t worthy at all, of course. But drifting for a few hours with only a faint hope that another ship might pass here and then hearing him literally saying that he cared about her… definitely was more than worthy.

‘It depends on what's at stake,’ Catherine said, and leaned closer to his face, pressing gently her lips to his. Praying that he wouldn't push her away and start telling that he couldn't. That it would lead to nothing. That it would simply be dangerous for both of them.

He didn’t.

She kissed him softly at the first moment but then slipped her tongue in his mouth, feeling him shiver as she pressed all of her body to his. Too much, perhaps. Catherine pulled back slightly — his eyes were still so close she almost discerned their color even in the darkness — and asked.

‘How long haven’t you been with a woman?’

‘A few months,’ he breathed deeply as she laid her hand on his chest tracing the lines of his body through the thin shirt. ‘Seven or eight. I didn’t actually count.’

‘It must’ve been a long time,’ Catherine murmured and slid her hand lower, touching the buttons on his white breeches. Only touching as she caressed him through the clothes. Watching him as his lashes lowered, his lips parted, his breath started coming in short gasps. Studying his face and repeating every move that pleased him, until he whispered her name almost desperately.

‘Catherine...’

‘Hush,’ she answered, being afraid somebody might hear him, and started to undo the buttons carefully, one by one. ‘Ah. There we are,’ she smiled and went down, bowing her head. Sliding her lips carefully, slowly, _tenderly_ , and feeling his fingers buried in her tangled hair. Hearing his gasps to become even shorter until…

‘Cat… Ah!’

He shivered when she raised her head, with his eyes hidden behind his dark lashes, his lips almost trembling and his chest heaving so desperately that she wanted to repeat everything she’d done to make him feel _this good_ once more.

‘Hush,’ Catherine repeated, stroking his burning cheek, and kissed him, feeling the salt on his upper lip.

‘You’re drowning me,’ James murmured, opening his eyes, and she lifted the corners of her mouth in a foxy smile.

‘That’s exactly what I’ve intended to do.’

‘Oh, have you?’ He asked, raising on the bed and taking off his shirt. Definitely knowing what this single move of his did to her. Always. From the very first night she’d touched his bare skin.

‘I love you,’ Catherine repeated desperately, and he kissed her again, definitely not thinking that her skin tasted of the sea salt and she didn’t resemble even in a bit that beautiful woman with perfect hair who had danced long ago in the house of the Governor of Port Royal. She closed her eyes, feeling a gentle, almost timid touch on her collarbones, and buried her fingers in the dark wavy hair that framed his face and fell to his shoulders. As she leaned back on the bed, reclining her head and gasping at his slightest move. Murmuring his name — ‘James, James, James...’ — as he pulled her even closer to him, holding her as tightly as possible, until she almost lost herself in his touch.

‘James...’

_‘Oh, please, just a little more... more... more...’_

A loud moan echoed through the darkened cabin, and Catherine dropped her head on a hard pillow, desperately gasping for air and feeling as if she had no strength even to move her hand. But she wrapped her arms and legs around him even more tightly at his first attempt to pull away.

‘No. Don’t go. Stay with me.’

She closed her eyes, feeling blissfully, _foolishly_ happy, as he kissed her neck, and still felt him watching her. James studied her face, stroking her cheek with the tips of his fingers as if he were an artist about to paint a portrait. Before he still moved away and laid next to her. Catherine followed and buried her face in his chest, before she repeated, listening to the waves lapping around and rocking the ship.

‘Stay with me.’


	5. V

The room was enlightened by dozens of candles burning in a metal chandelier raised to the high ceiling. Warm golden light was glinting off the crystal pendants, flickering on the wrought-iron roses, and scattering myriads of sparks in women's jewelry and men's rings. Long, heavy skirts were rustling, heels were clicking and polished buckles were shining, glasses were jingling, and a quiet sound of gamba* was heard from somewhere in the corner of the hall.

‘Madame’, the French Ambassador Paul Barillon d'Amoncourt, the Marquis de Branges, was drawling and lavishing compliments to the lady of the house. ‘I am astonished by your delicate taste. I swear, there is no such exquisite sparkling wine even in the cellars of the Palais-Royal.’

He was probably lying, because France, that supplied this wine from the province of Champagne in such quantities that it could fill the entire riverbed of the Thames from the source to the estuary… Well, France itself treated sparkling wine quite coldly as French winemakers used to say that decent wine should not have such defects. But mad Englishmen, of course, could drink anything and pay for their fads any money. English gold was not objected by any merchant in the world, whether French, Dutch, or Spanish, who instantly forgot their old rivalries at sea at the sight of the guineas with the portrait of Charles II.

‘You flatter me, Marquis,’ Mother smiled, holding James' hand and seeing through the Ambassador perfectly. And knowing perfectly about his not-so-pleasant nature. A skilled diplomat and intriguant, the Marquis was polite and respectful only when he pursued personal goals. Especially with the ladies, who often complained about his unpleasant — almost insulting — remarks about English manners, weather, and even colonies in the West Indies. As a true patriot and loyal subject of his King, the Marquis believed that France could have used all the advantages of Western plantations much better and would certainly put an end to the rampant piracy in Caribbean waters long ago. Forgetting that at least a third of these thieves openly sailed under the French colors, especially preferring to attack Dutch merchant ships. Despite the decisive victory in the last war — or rather because of it, — the common French felt it their duty to remind the vanquished Dutch of their humiliation over and over again.

‘Despicable tradesmen,’ the Marquis would say at every mention of the Dutch and their leader, William of Orange. This evening was no exception. ‘Tell us, Captain, are they as arrogant in the New World as in the Old one?’

‘I don't think my son speaks much to merchants, Marquis,’ Mother said, squeezing his hand a little harder. ‘As a man of duty, he...’

‘Oh, no doubt,’ the Marquis agreed, as a walking stick thumped on the floor somewhere behind. ‘Pirates of all kinds are the most dangerous scourge of these wonderful southern seas.’

‘If only all the officers remembered it’, another voice said from behind. ‘And got rid of their whores.’

‘Lawrence,’ Mother said, almost ingratiating, but her voice now seemed to come through the water thickness. ‘Why to spoil such a wonderful evening?’

‘Ask him that question.’

James glanced over his shoulder, turning deliberately slow and knowing perfectly what a look he would get in return. That look was never satisfied.

‘Admiral.’

‘Captain. Although if I had it my way, you'd still be a Lieutenant.’

And if he weren’t the Admiral's son, this duel would have been fought with swords, not with the words.

‘I have no doubt, sir.’

‘Lawrence,’ Mother tried again. The room was blurring, like a drawing on sand washed by a wave.

‘The pirates are sinking one ship after another and committing any lawlessness they can think of, while our officers are having fun with French whores. Were you not satisfied with all the poor who had already been killed or robbed because of you?’

‘I would ask you not to speak of this woman in such words. And why do you always blame it on me and never on yourself, sir?’ James asked, not letting himself to raise his voice and taking a step back. ‘It was you who took a six-year-old child on board.’

‘And this pirate escaped because you weren’t even able to stand your own feet,’ the Admiral replied, stepping forward and striking the wooden floor with his stick.

The water was roaring over the ship's gunwale, already rising above his knees. Swords clashed as sea spray flew in all directions, and the dark face of the pirate was visible as if through a haze. Or through the thickness of the water, still unable to drown out his sonorous baritone.

_‘I didn't save your life, boy, so that you could curse my name every hour. Don't you know anything of gratitude?’_

The water was flooding the deck, rising higher — or was it the ship sinking rapidly? — and the top of the mast, with its red and blue flag floating on the water, was no longer visible through the searing blue.

_‘Haven't you thought about it, James? Have you ever wondered how many this pirate has sent to the sea devil in recent years? He should’ve been hanging in a noose, but escaped because of you. Are you grateful to this pirate? Well, everyone who has since died at his hands should be grateful to you.’_

The water receded suddenly, leaving only a ghostly feeling of salt on his skin, and the blue before his eyes turned into a faint grayish light that came into the cabin through the stern windows. James blinked, lowered his lashes, listening to the ship rocking and the feeling of a woman's body clinging to him, and opened his eyes again, squinting them slightly. Catherine slept peacefully, with her arm across his chest and her cheek against his shoulder. Her long hair fell over her serene face with and was spread out over her back, barely covered by the blanket that had fallen down in her sleep. And the dark shadow of her lashes mesmerized him the moment he looked at her.

_‘Didn't you think that it wasn't your fault, Lieutenant? I think we both know the height of the gunwales on the upper deck. And I can imagine the height of a six-year-old. It appears to me that you fell overboard against your will.’_

_‘I must say… it never occurred to me, Madame.’_

As well as the fact that a woman could look at it from a completely different angle than a couple of men who didn’t understand anything except their duty to the King. But if something like this would happen...

_‘Lord, I've only seen him once in my life, but if it’d happened to him, I'd be grateful, even if it had been the Satan himself who'd saved him. And his mother would be. Neither she nor I would have even dared to think that it would have been better for him to drown than to be obliged to a pirate.’_

For a moment, he wanted to pull her closer, to wake her with a kiss, and not let her go until she’d start gasping again, as she had last night. He wanted to make her shiver once more. Because of his tenderness, of his desire and of his gratitude for their son and for her understanding. But what happened between them in the dark of the night must have remained in the dark. First of all, for the sake of her reputation.

Catherine barely moved when James gently pulled away from her warm embrace, but she crumpled the edge of the blanket in her fingers, pressing her hand now to her chest. She always slept so soundly, never knowing that sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night and watched her in the light of the dying candle. And now she also didn’t hear a rustle of sheets and clothes, nor the splash of water, nor the creak of the boards under his boots. Nor did she hear the sound of the key turning and locking all the papers that had been rashly left on the table last night.

It was much lighter on the upper deck than in the cabin, and the very edge of the sun's disk, almost white at dawn, was already visible above the horizon. Ahead of them, a silhouette of a ship seemed bright and sharp contrasting with the dark gray waves. A faint glimmer on the horizon that had been noticed at sunset turned into white sails and a stern of salt-soaked dark wood. Was it the same pirate ship? They had hoisted the English colors, but what if there was a second flag hidden on board, with crossbones, as the sailors from the sunken French ship had described it?

‘They won a few during the night, sir,’ Lieutenant Gillette reported cheerfully holding the wheel, but the next moment he tried to yawn furtively into his fist. ‘Orders?’

Which definitely meant _‘Should we come closer?’_.

 _‘No, turn around and go back to Martinique,’_ James thought irritably, but decided to keep silent. Obviously, Gillette was nervous, still didn't know much about real officer service, and had questioned even his every move since _The Dauntless_ had left the harbor of Port-Royal a few months ago. Paradoxically, Gillette was too nervous and tried to make as good impression as possible, while at the same time he remained extremely clumsy. In the end, the impression left much to be desired.

‘Get close enough for them to notice when we start signaling, Lieutenant. But not for a cannon shot. And prepare one of the boats.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the Lieutenant reported, then frowned thoughtfully and asked in a doubt. ‘A boat, sir?’

‘We have women on board,’ James reminded. ‘I don't think it's worth exposing them to the dangers of naval battles and boardings.’

Gillette lifted his chin thoughtfully, paused for a split second, and nodded shortly.

‘Exactly. I didn’t think of it, sir.’

Luckily for the Lieutenant, he was saved from the Captain's attention by appearance of Francis, who, as usual, was tying a white neckcloth a in his motion.

‘Morning, Captain!’ he yelled, flying up the stairs to the quarterdeck and being absolutely unembarrassed by James’ judging look. Francis definitely got out of hand. Knowing that at the first attempt to send him to the brig, he could start moaning ‘We have served together for so many years, and now you, Captain...!’, and then the Captain would be tormented by his conscience contradicting the King’s Regulations. ‘Lieutenant Gillett, give me the wheel!’

Gillette squinted questioningly at the Captain, waiting for confirmation, received a short nod, and obediently left his place at the wheel.

‘The boat, Lieutenant,’ James reminded him, and Gillette only blushed guiltily.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What a clumsy boy’, said Francis quietly, as the unfortunate Lieutenant almost ran down to the deck. ‘You're going to have a lot of trouble with that hole in his head when I’ll get my own ship.’ He raised his eyebrows for a second and added, lowering his voice even more. ‘Jim, I recognized her.’

‘Sorry?’ James asked politely, pretending to be more interested in the unknown ship ahead than in Francis' words. The first Lieutenant decided not to argue about the subject in response, knowing that an exchange of vague hints would only bring them to a dead end.

‘I'm talking about that charming French lady who deprived you from your rightful berth. Or, maybe, she didn't, but such details don't concern me in any way. Although, I must say, it was not difficult to recognize her, considering how dashingly she’d shot that poor Dutchman. And if at first I still had doubts, but then... I won't lie, your attitude towards her betrayed her even better that shot. The others may not understand, but it's been a long time since I've seen you in such a rage because of some simple pirates.’

‘Sorry?’ James repeated emphatically. Francis should have stopped at this conclusion and made no other. Francis wouldn't be Francis if he didn't continue.

‘Jim, if you decided that... How much? Three years ago? Yes, perhaps, three. So, if you thought that all the officers on this ship had suddenly become blind, then you were deeply mistaken. Well, the Captain, I suppose, hadn’t notice anything… suspicious. But I'm not so proud of myself to think that I'm the only man on board who may seem attractive to a beautiful woman. And, believe me, I knew perfectly that you and this woman were lovers. ‘

James said nothing, but gave Francis a look that made him shrug.

‘Oh, please, don't make such a face. Seriously, it was like lightning bolts striking over and over again between you two, and, I suppose, you were the only ones who didn't notice it. But we both know it's none of my business, and I'm not going to lecture you or insult her honor. She's married, if I remember correctly, so you didn't have much choice. And I'd rather leave the ‘Don't sin’ option to the saints. But ... you know where it can lead. I'm sorry, but I _have to_ warn you.’

‘I have no idea, what you are talking about’, James said dryly, his eyes watching attentively the white sails ahead.

‘Oh, don’t you? How many years have we been serving on one ship? Five? Seven? And I am not mentioning about our previous ... adventures, so to say. I know you too well, Jim. There aren't many reasons in this world that might force you to do something foolish, but this woman is definitely one of them. Which bothers me more than any pirates. And there aren't many people in this world that I'm actually afraid of. But Admiral Norrington is one of them. If he finds out that you've broken one of his rule again, you and she will both be in trouble.’

 _‘No,’_ James thought, still avoiding to look at Francis’ face. _‘For her… it won’t be just a trouble.’_

The Admiral would not just lock his documents or something. The Admiral would turn inside out everything he can find out about her, until he’d get to her most dangerous secrets. And then he’d start hunting her. And he’d sentence her to death when he’d succeed. Not _‘if’_ , but _‘when’_. And he’d be even _glad_ to hang her, because she had her own truth. A truth that was no different from the Admiral's truth, but which the Admiral, nevertheless, wouldn’t understand. And her lover would not save her from the gallows. Even though he was the Admiral’s son. He’d rather, on the contrary, would condemn her himself. The Admiral would probably be glad to point out his son’s another mistake.

So it had to stop. Before it'd become too late.

‘I know, Francis. But… there are a couple of difficulties.’

‘Which ones?’ Francis asked skeptically.

‘I love her,’ James said, watching the faint English flag flutter in the wind at the mainmast of the unknown ship ahead. ‘And she's the mother of my son.’

Francis paused for a few moments, probably rolling his eyes or muttering some obscenity, and then said with what seemed to James to be an obvious relief:

‘And I thought you were almost a saint. Thank God you’re not.’

‘Oh, yes, make fun of me,’ James said dryly, turning to face him. ‘Go on.’

'I'm sorry," Francis chuckled, not bothering himself to remember about any subordination at all. ‘But it's not my cabin where the woman who gave birth to my child is sleeping now. And it’s not me who can't marry her. And it is not my father who will be the death of all three of you if he finds out about such a disgrace. What will happen to his brilliant reputation, ha? And to you and your belle?’

‘Nothing good. As you're right,’ James agreed, before raising his voice to be heard on the deck. ‘Lieutenant Gillette, inform Monsieur de Blanchard that we will need his assistance. I hope his people will be able to recognize at least one of the pirates.’

And one insufferable adventuress would agree to get into the boat. Since — and with her love of getting into trouble all the time — Catherine might as well want to get even with the pirates herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *viola da gamba, or informally gamba, first appeared in the mid to late 15th century and was most popular in 1600–1750.
> 
> *The Palais-Royal is a former royal palace located opposite the Louvre. It was the residence of Philippe de France, duc d'Orléans, the younger brother of Louis XIV, since 1661.


	6. VI

Square-heeled boots were thundering across the cabin's plank floor like a cannonade that smashed the ship's side to splinters. Catherine was darting around the captain's cabin, buttoning her waistcoat, nearly ripping off the round dark buttons in her rage and snarling like an angry lioness.

‘Into the boat! Like I am some merchant's wife, like...!’

‘ _You are_ the merchant's wife,’ James blurted out, and her salty hair slapped her face as she spun on her heel and glanced at the pair of pistols on the table. If they were loaded, this ship would definitely need a new captain. ‘Sorry. I meant...’

‘I know what you meant!’ Catherine snapped and snorted, with her nostrils flaring in rage. ‘That I am only good at sinking in the sea and pleasuring you at night, my lord,’ she said, and parted the skirts of her waistcoat in a mock curtsey. ‘I hope you are satisfied.’

James pursed his lips up and rolled his eyes in the most demonstrative manner, raising them to the ceiling for a moment. Before he gave her a skeptical gaze that expressed his attitude better than any words.

_‘For God's sake, you are not serious, are you?’_

‘And what else am I supposed to think?’ Catherine snapped and turned back to the window, beginning to discontentedly — too clumsily and jerkily — plait her hair into a braid. ‘Like a dockside wench, truly,’ she grumbled to herself, ignoring the approaching footsteps behind her. ‘Please the Captain, you, foolish woman, and get off the ship before the sea devil gets angry. A woman on board brings bad luck, everyone knows that.’

James stopped behind her and put his hands on her resentfully twitching shoulders, running his fingers down the thin sleeves of her shirt. _His_ shirt, actually, which Catherine never returned, not at all embarrassed by the fact that the shirt was noticeably large for her and she had to turn up the sleeves with wide starched cuffs.

‘Didn't you once say that you knew a little about ship's steering and had never held a sword in your life? I won't let you risk your life. If not for your own sake, then for the sake of your son.’

Catherine glanced over her shoulder, and her mouth made a grimace of displeasure. There were no tears in the clear green eyes, only indignation.

_‘Are you trying to manipulate me? Do you think I'll let you?’_

‘And if you remember' she answered, 'I said I didn't want to see you risk your life. I don't know what you think of me, but I'm not the kind of woman who applauds in the front rows when their men are fighting to the death. Even if I can't… call you mine. And I can help. I want to help. I won't be able to sit in this damned boat and listen to the guns firing, like I am some kind of... as if I am...’

James lowered his left arm, wrapping it around her waist and pulling her closer. Catherine didn't draw away, but she stopped in the middle of her sentence, unable to find the right word, and stiffened for a moment, as if his gesture seemed to her... to be the calm before the storm.

‘I know you don't love me,’ Catherine said with a hint of bitterness in her voice, her gaze watching his face nervously, and the corner of his mouth twitched unwittingly.

_‘You wanted this. I used it that you were a man, but you wanted it, don't deny it.’_

Wanted. And much more than she could have offered if she had only tried to trick a foolish, unsophisticated officer.

‘Did I ever say I didn't love you?’

Her green eyes flashed with golden sparks, as if catching a bright ray of sunlight, but he continued, knowing that those sparks would fade in a second.

‘It's not about love, Catherine. I still can't trust you.’

She answered with a short sigh and looked down at the almost empty table — except for the pistols, the water jug, and the inkwell with the pen — before answering:

‘Who do you think I am? A… pirate willing to do anything for my own profit?’

‘No, you're not. But didn't you say once that if you’d had to choose between a thousand Dutch and a thousand French, you would’ve chosen the French? And what would change if the Dutch were replaced by the English? You serve your King, and I serve mine. Sooner or later it will lead us... Well, we'll be lucky if we don't face the gallows.’

_‘We walk along the very edge of a plank thrown over a gunwale. With a cannonball strapped to our feet. One careless step and we will both drown in this maelstrom of oaths to the Kings who don't even remember our names, and of fights on the sea and the land for people who don't even know we exist. What a foolish story it will be.’_

‘James,’ Catherine breathed, with her lips parted and her fingers clenching at the white lapel of his uniform coat. Now she was the one who was trying to manipulate.

She was even ready to go into a new battle trying to earn his trust, which… What did she need it for? And who needed it truly? She or France? And was she herself ready to trust a man who might betray her at any moment, choosing not her, but his loyalty to the English crown? He wouldn't even dare think of such a thing — unless she herself chose to turn them from lovers to enemies — but she didn't know that.

'Go to the boat, Catherine. Or you will leave this ship being bound hand and foot. Because I don't want my son to lost his mother.'

Catherine bit her lip and wriggled out of his arms, with the expression of anger and resentment on her face.

'To the boat, Madame,' James repeated, and she snatched up her pistols from the table, probably wishing again that she had had time to load them.

'As you wish, Captain.'

Catherine turned only once before stepping into the boat and gave him a glance that was more appropriate for a wife seeing her husband off on a dangerous voyage. A glance that literally said 'If something happens to you... I won't forgive you.'

 _'Women',_ James thought, turning his back to the gunwale as the boat disappeared. 'Get them in range.'

'Yes, sir!'

If the captain of the second ship was smart enough — and truly a pirate — he would haul down his sails and pretend to be an ordinary merchant. Or, even worse, he would show a letter of marque from. In such a very unpleasant and completely undesirable scenario, there would be nothing to show him in response. If subjects of the King of England — judging by their blue and red colors raised above the mainmast — had sunk a ship of the King of France's subjects, only a French warship might still have called them to account. If she would like to engage with privateers and their protection by the English Crown. The English ship of the line, in this case, should just salute to her more successful compatriot and continue her journey North to the islands of St. Christopher and Nevis.

But why would a privateer raise a pirate flag before attacking French merchants? For intimidation? Possibly, but piracy, unlike privateering, was punished by the gallows. Was it worth the risk? And privateers usually preferred a different kind of ships: fast, maneuverable, with low sides and sails that seemed almost three times bigger than the size of the ship herself. It was a quite a comical appearance, but captains of such vessels did not think of such trifles. Speed and ability to take on board up more than two hundred people at once were valued far more than an unprepossessing appearance. This ship looked more like a merchant vessel, reinforced with falconets on deck and perhaps two dozen guns under it.

'That's them,' Monsieur de Blanchard spoke with assurance, as soon as he had looked at the ship through the telescope. It would be foolish to believe his words immediately — who knows if Monsieur wasn't trying to throw out his anger on the first English ship that came along? — but the rush on her upper deck looked suspicious. Why would loyal and god-fearing Englishmen be so nervous at the sight of a warship under the English colors?

''I wonder if they'll take in sail,' Francis said in undertone and then added, remembering about the subordination. 'Captain.'

'It would be foolish to open fire at us,' James replied. Twenty-something guns against ninety... The battle would be over in a few minutes.

'To give up without a fight would be foolish either. If they're the ones we're looking for.'

'But they don't know we're looking for them."

'That makes sense,' Francis agreed. 'The conversation with the captain will be interesting, I think.'

 _'If this conversation was going to happen at all,'_ James thought, his eyes fixed on the English flag on the enemy's mast fluttering in the wind. As it was the only way to not looking back at the boat left behind.

'Keep the guns on the port side ready.'

As not to waste precious moments on senseless running around the deck, but load the guns and fire from all three decks at once. Before the enemy has time to prepare and damage at least one splinter of The Dauntless.

'Hm,' said Francis, as the grayish sails of the ship ahead began to move, rising to the yards. 'I don't think we'll use the guns this time.'

'They have no other choice,' James thought, before ordering to come closer and stretch a long wooden gangplank between two gunwales — one being noticeably lower than the other. Honest merchants had nothing to hide from their own Royal Navy, and pirates truly had no choice but to pretend to be twice as honest as ordinary merchants. But the captain of this boat was trying too hard.

'To what do we owe such an honor, gentlemen?' he asked, too ingratiatingly, as two officers came on deck, surrounded by red-coated marines, and his eyes moved too quickly and suspiciously.

'We're searching for pirates. A merchant ship was sunk in these waters a couple of days ago.'

'Pirates?' the captain repeated in an ingratiating voice. 'We are honest merchants, sir, and do not engage in any ways with such brigands.'

'What's in the hold?' James asked, watching the crew's moves out of the corner of his eye. Nervous scoundrels. The captain still kept his face — even if he was too fawning — but his sailors, crowded on deck, were far less self-possessed. And they already betrayed themselves and their captain. They understood that a second-rate ship of line would send their vessel to the bottom in a volley or two. They also knew that they should've acted calmly and naturally, but the fear was stronger than any voice of reason.

Rats. They attacked the weak, coming out of the shadows only when they are sure of their victory, and crouched in corners as soon as they saw those who were able to rebuff them. 

'Nothing special, sir. Coffee, tobacco, and a few other... trifles.'

The tension in the air felt physically, with every inch of bare skin. And it was clearly read in the eyes of the subdued crew. They must have been cursing their captain for letting military men step on board instead of dodging and avoiding them as long as possible.

'Show it.'

Francis was wrong about one thing. The shooting was unavoidable. The crew gathered on deck, and still did not reach for their swords and pistols only because this move would have betrayed them better than the pirate flag at the top of the mast.

'Why bother, sir?' the captain fawned again. 'If there is any need, then you can tell us directly. Why we won't share with our English brothers...?'

James turned on his heel to face him, and the captain broke off in mid-sentence, swallowing and darting his eyes. 

'Well... If you're in no need... If you want to see the hold, then see. Who won't let you? We are lawful people and have never even seen these French sunk. We simply missed each other. It must be a big sea, you know.'

'Is that so?' James asked politely, watching the crew's movements on the sunlit deck out of the corner of his eye. Not allowing them to read any emotions on his face. To see even the shadow of the rage burning in his chest. 'I didn't say it was a French ship. I take it as you don't have any letters of marque?'

A moment later the sun was covered with thick smoke. It was impossible to tell which of the pirates was the first to reach for the pistol and try to pull the trigger, and the marines responded with a synchronous volley of their rifles and with a strike of bayonets. Blood splattered on the deck. James discharged his pistol and unsheathed his sword. The captain, as he supposed, did not have the fortunate letter. And the English flag would not save him.

The air was filled with screams and stifled groans, and new splashes of blood spread in irregular circles on the salt-pitted planks. 

'Drop your weapon!'

Or was the death in battle preferable to the ignominious one on the gallows? If so — if it had been a question of his own death, James would have preferred a short sword strike to agonizing convulsions in the noose — but to grant such a favor to pirates at the cost of the lives of his own crew? 

His uniform coat crackled under a stab and the ribs near his heart burned by the touch cold blade. The rip in the blue fabric turned dark red. 

_'You should strike harder, gentlemen,'_ James thought irritably as he spun around and answered with one short thrust cutting the enemy's throat. 

And the Captain of His Majesty's Ship _The Dauntless_ should not rush into the epicenter of a battle like a... young boy in love. Or at least ... he shouldn't act like he wanted to behead all of the pirates himself.

By the time the smoke had cleared completely from the deck, less half of the pirate crew was still standing on their feet.

'Drop your weapon!'

The cutlasses hit the blood-slick deck with a low, dissatisfied clink. Either the scoundrels were encouraged by the hope of escaping from prison on the nearest of the English Islands, or they finally despaired and decided that it was useless to resist, and the heroic death in battle would still be the death, after which they would have to answer for their deeds before the Lord. A even a rare daredevil would have agreed to postpone this moment for at least a few days. What to say about some coward rats? 

'Prisoners to the brig! Search the ship and take it in tow! Lieutenant Hagthorpe, take the wounded to the surgeon!'

'And he'll start with the Captain,' Francis muttered, and James looked down at the bloodstain spreading across his uniform coat.

_'Right.'_

***

Judging by the strength of pitching, the wind blew from the North and the ship went forward sailing close-hauled and maneuvering on the waves in an attempt to catch the wind in the sails and constantly changing her tack. The coxswain must have seen himself the Master of the Seas, tossing the wheel from side to side and commanding the sails to be taken in and hoisted again, but the Captain would have preferred broad reach. With its lesser difficulties.

But no one was interested in the Captain's opinion, and he could only hope that it was Francis who'd taken the wheel. Otherwise, they would get in irons constantly.

However, the Captain wasn't quite honest. His opinion was not interested only by the woman sitting on his berth, with her hand pressed to his chest at the first attempt not even to rise, but simply to move.

'Lie still,' Catherine said irritably, not bothering to remove her hand as he blinked, trying to get used to the light in the dim cabin and to figure out where the sun was.

'How long did I sleep?' James asked, deciding it was pointless to argue with her.

'A few hours. It's getting dark.'

'And you...?'

'This is a military ship, Captain,' Catherine almost spat out and leaned forward, with her hand outstretched as if she wanted to lie across his chest. But instead, she put her hand on the bed and let her dark braid fall from her shoulder. 'There aren't many hands free to look after the wounded. So I was happy to proffer my services.'

 _'Well'_ , James thought, it was lucky that he didn't see the moment when this fury returned to _The Dauntless_. And no cowardice it was as the surgeon strongly ordered to avoid sudden movements for at least the first few hours. Only a fool would not listen to the advice of an experienced doctor.

'But,' Catherine continued, with an undisguised sneer in her voice, 'if you want to know, Monsieur de Blanchard's daughter was so eager to take care of the hero who had punished the vile pirates. The poor girl almost fainted when she learned that one of her rescuers had been wounded in the battle. She even ventured to ask her father if there was anything she could do for the fearless Captain. How could it be otherwise? Such a handsome man, and a military one. No surprise that the girl's tender heart could not resist. But the poor thing had to take care of a man far below your rank, sir.'  
  
'Are you laughing at me?' James asked, and tried to move slightly, making himself comfortable. As his chest immediately ached in response. A scratch, but an unpleasant one, which hurt at the slightest attempt to move his hand.

'No, James,' Catherine answered with unexpected bitterness and lowered her voice. 'I'm laughing at myself. I think I'm deadly jealous.'

'Why should you?'

Why should she be jealous, truly? Or was this just another display of the distrust that had torn them both apart? 

'She's young,' Catherine shrugged her shoulders. 'She's only sixteen. And I'm ... twenty-five. In her eyes I'm an old woman with a child.'

And he remembered her saying that she was only twenty three years ago. However, he suspected something like that. Madame Delannois liked too much to mislead people with any opportunity she had. Even if it was only about her age.

'You may be old in her eyes, but not in mine. And if you allow me to remind, it's my child too. So it will be up to me and not to the ladies to decide which of them I will plead for indulgence.'

'Just indulgence?' Catherine asked with a sly smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

'No. I dare ask for a kiss too, Madame.'

Since the situation allowed it. To be jealous and build illusions.

'Don't expect more than that, Captain,' Catherine said, leaning toward his face, her voice trembling with tenderness. 'I only wish you a recovery.'

And she probably didn't wish to be dropped off on the first island on their way. But she knew she had no choice.

She would disembark at the first port, since this time he would not be able to say that he only wanted to help a lady in distress and bring her home. And to refer to her friendship with the Governor of Port Royal either. But knowing Catherine's luckiness, this meeting was unlikely to be the last one.


End file.
